


Volcano Sunday

by basilique



Series: Sex and Other Madnesses [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Americana, Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Bad Decisions, Badass Lilia, Badass Minako, Beach Town, Best Friends, Boys Kissing, Carnivale - Freeform, Drama & Romance, Drugged Sleep, Drunkenness, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Ferris Wheel Sex, Gangs, Gangsters, Het and Slash, Infidelity, Long-Haired Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, POV Multiple, Pole Dancing, Promiscuity, Prostitution, Sexual Addiction, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Stripper Katsuki Yuuri, Stripper Phichit Chulanont, Tags May Change, Tattoos, Transgender Phichit, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warnings May Change, badass Otabek, past sibling incest, pearl diver Yuri Plisetsky, totally batshit crazy Georgi Popovich, vice and sin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basilique/pseuds/basilique
Summary: Seven years have passed since Otabek Altin and Yuri Plisetsky fled from the gang culture of their home town.Now, the Skins, the Angels, and the other gangs more or less work together to repair the damage that their violence wrought.But this peace is fragile, and when Otabek returns to town in disguise for the tourist-trap carnival "Volcano Sunday", a new sort of madness explodes.





	1. Neon Carnivale

The sun is going down, and the beach-side carnival is lighting up. 

Neon lights click on; along the edges of the docks, up the side of the Ferris wheel, around the orbit of the tilt-a-whirl. 

Yuuri waits for his cue, crouched hidden in the darkness under a dock. He smells, as the scent of salt and brine is overpowered by the aroma of fried dough and french fries sizzling up the beach. He listens, as the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the poles of the dock is replaced by the swell of carnival music. He watches, as the twinkle of the July stars in the red sky over Havenport surrenders to the glare of the neon lights. 

It’s time to make these tourists throw their money. 

Yuuri is in full makeup, with long fake eyelashes studded with rhinestones, a headdress of glass jewels and peacock feathers, and an enormous iridescent peacock fan stuck to his ass. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Yakov’s voice booms out over the beach. He is seated in the lifeguard’s tower, rigged up in a nest of soundboards and microphones. Minami scrambles around him, adjusting dials. “You could have been at home in your own bed tonight like a good girl or boy. You could have been reading your children a story, or putting in those extra hours at work to please your boss. But instead, you’re here with us for _Volcano Sunday Weekend!_ ” 

A cheer goes up from the crowded beach. Yakov waits for it to pass before he booms on, “ _Yes_ , you’ve been a very naughty boy or girl! But don’t worry, the hangovers will be punishment enough!” There is laughter from the crowds, and Yakov continues “This weekend, indulge yourself in all your vices. You’ve earned it. Let us be your enablers. We want to show you all how we live here in Havenport!” 

There is another raucous cheer, and Yuuri creeps out from under the dock and prepares himself for the glare of the spotlight. His stands on the beach in the darkness, his cue moments away. He lifts his arms in a V, palms up, and plasters a huge smile on his face. 

Yakov drops his tone to a more conversational one, with the air of someone downplaying a great surprise. "We have a lot of rich traditions here in town. And I can think of a few that you will not want to miss. For example, you'll want to make sure to catch a cockfight while you're here. In fact--" he pauses dramatically as Minami pretends to whisper something into his ear. "It seems we have a couple of fighting cocks right here on the beach with us, aching for a fight. What do you say, shall we let them have at each other?!" 

There is an enthusiastic, though somewhat-confused cheer. And a blinding blue spotlight swivels onto Yuuri. 

A hundred yards down the beach, a red spotlight swivels onto Phichit, who stands with his own arms raised. He wears a flared Malaysian-style headdress and a huge red ruff of feathers around his shoulders. Golden chains drape over his torso and off of his tiny red thong. 

There are thrilled and scandalized gasps, and a few tentative whistles of delight. The crowd is casting aside the inhibitions of their ordinary world. They do not quite dare enjoy this as much as they want to; the two bejeweled and nearly-naked men charging at each other across the beach. 

But after tonight, they will have abandoned their principles and inhibitions and lost their minds, Yuuri knows. 

Havenport has that effect on people.


	2. The Eros Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Unfaithful thoughts and urges

Yellow spotlights swivel onto two slender silver poles set up in the sand, sheltered by a pavilion. 

Yuuri and Phichit run for the poles, careful to reach them at the same time, and launch their bodies at them in unison. 

The carnival music tapers into electronic dance music as they begin to swing their bodies around the poles, and the crowd lets out whoops of excitement and delight. 

Using their momentum, they launch themselves through the air to switch poles, pretending to slash and claw at each other as they pass in the air. 

Yuuri catches Phichit’s pole and flips himself around on it. He drops, in a graceful arc, to the sand, and crouches, his hands raised like talons, his expression proud and disdainful like a peacock’s. 

There are wolf whistles from the crowd as the two of them begin to circle each other, their bodies crouched low to the sand. 

Phichit gives Yuuri a small nod, imperceptible to the audience but a signal to Yuuri. And Yuuri lunges low and rolls, slashing at Phichit’s ankles, while Phichit kicks himself up into the air. One foot comes down to rest for just a moment on the small of Yuuri’s back as Phichit flips himself off of Yuuri’s body. 

They both leap, as though startled by one another’s ferocity, and haul themselves hand-over-hand up the two poles. 

This dance is more of a display of arm strength than anything else: they are both excellent dancers, and Minako is an excellent choreographer, but there is only so much that you can do on a pole while wearing a headdress and a fan of tail feathers. This display of aggressive masculinity is also a way of warming the crowd up; getting them loose and engaged for the next part of this act, which Yuuri knows that they will find…very shocking. 

Minako’s hope is that if these tourists are scandalized and titillated enough on this Friday night of Volcano Sunday weekend, then they will feel more eager to lose their inhibitions and indulge their most expensive whims on Saturday and Sunday. 

Phichit and Yuuri both hang from the top of their poles for a moment, letting the crowd’s anticipation build. 

The crowd is pressing forward, circling more tightly around the pavilion. The people in the back, who can no longer see, are craning their necks. 

One man, already drunk and with a loud voice, is yelling excitedly, “Get him, birdy. Come on! Wreck him! Come onnnn!” 

Phichit swings back and forth a few times, and when Yuuri nods, Phichit leaps for Yuuri’s pole. Yuuri drops like a fireman, stopping himself abruptly where Phichit hangs, and the two of them spin around each other on the pole, making gestures as though to grab for each other. They spin down to the bottom of the pole, and Yuuri stretches out a leg to “kick” Phichit backwards onto the sand. 

Yuuri stands up, swings around the pole prettily, and rests his foot on Phichit’s heaving chest. 

He raises his arms in a V of victory, and the crowd begins to cheer and holler. 

But the red rooster will not accept the blue peacock’s defeat, and Phichit thrusts Yuuri’s foot disdainfully from his chest. He hoists himself to his feet using the pole, hand over hand, his gaze on Yuuri furious and heated. 

Then his left hand slides up to grip the pole above them, and his right arm wraps around Yuuri’s waist to pull their bodies together. And before the audience knows what is happening, they are kissing, their bodies entwined around the pole. 

There is a moment of stunned silence in the crowd surrounding the pavilion. Then several men exclaim in shock and several women shriek in delight. 

Yuuri pulls away from the kiss and spins Phichit around. He pulls Phichit’s hands behind his back around the pole. Then he stands behind Phichit, and runs his hands down over Phichit’s exposed torso. 

Phichit lets his head roll back against the pole, his face turned toward Yuuri’s, and Yuuri brushes his lips against his neck from behind. He wraps one hand around Phichit’s throat and runs the other down over Phichit’s ribcage. He goes gently over Phichit's scars; the lines under his pectorals where his breasts were removed when he was eighteen. Phichit had stripped naked and shown Yuuri his whole body when all the surgeries were finally finished. Yuuri thinks, oddly, about that moment now. 

Now, with Phichit backed up against the pole in front of him. Yuuri runs his hand down Phichit's stomach; over his bellybutton; claws down the front of his golden-chained thigh. 

Women are _screaming_ now, and Yuuri can’t deny that this is a little fun. He and Phichit are perfectly in sync; they grew up dancing together, two talented Hornets who long knew they could serve the gang best as strippers. And they are of one mind in this moment: let’s make this hot as Hell. _Let’s devastate these straight people._

Phichit shoves Yuuri back onto the ground and pins his wrists in the sand. Yuuri arches as though straining against the hold and Phichit kisses down Yuuri’s exposed throat. 

Yuuri raises his hips and flips them over, crawls on top of Phichit. But then Phichit flips him again. And they roll through the sand, warring for dominance while the crowd hoots and hollers. 

They finally stop with Yuuri on top, and they cradle each other’s heads, fingers tugging sand through each other’s hair as they kiss with mouths open. 

It feels _good_ to kiss Phichit; too good. Yuuri has noticed it before. 

He doesn’t like the fact that Phichit’s fingers tugging the back of his hair make him shudder. Or that Phichit’s tongue in his mouth makes him want to moan. 

He hopes desperately that Phichit can’t feel the very genuine erection pressed against his thigh. 

_Get it together, Yuuri! It’s just Phichit!_

Yuuri peeks under his armpit at the crowd for a moment, in an effort to diffuse some of the heat in his brain. And in that momentary glance, he sees something strange. 

There is a man standing near the front of the crowd. 

Despite of the heat of the July night, he is wearing a long-sleeved shirt. 

He is watching them impassively, thoughtfully. He does not look either drunk, or surprised to see this sort of show. In fact, he doesn’t look like a tourist at all. 

He looks _familiar_. 

He is wearing a carnival mask, as many of the tourists are, but Yuuri is _sure_ that he has seen that jawline before, and that thick bottom lip, that fighter’s posture... 

_What the Hell? Could that be--?_

Phichit pinches Yuuri on the hip; the cue, and Yuuri comes back to the dance and the guilty arousal it is bringing him. He flips Phichit’s body over and pins him down, his palm between Phichit’s sweaty shoulder blades. 

He arches his body up, and then planks down on top of Phichit, pressing his hips against Phichit’s ass in a theatrical simulation of sex, and the spotlights on them click out. 

“Myyy goodness!” booms Yakov’s voice over the beach. “I think we’d better give those two cocks some privacy!” 

The crowd yells and cheers, scandalized and delighted, and a moment later the spotlight clicks onto Mila, waiting in her green carnival feathers and stiletto heels at a pole erected on one of the docks. The music changes to a pop song. And as a fresh cheer rises for this new dancer, Yuuri rolls off of Phichit, and the two of them breathe hard, lying side by side on the sand.


	3. The Pearl Diver

Underwater, it is quiet and dark.

Yuri Plisetsky’s breath inside the diving bell is the only sound.

He stands with his body submerged, only his head and shoulders above water, in the air pocket at the top of the bell. He takes a deep breath, and drops down. He kicks with his flippers, and drops out of the bell to the sea floor.

He scrapes his rake across rocks and sand, and gathers about two dozen oysters into a bag. Then he feels the need to fill his lungs again, and kicks back up into the bell to stick his head in the air pocket.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, looking down at the seafloor a few feet below.

It is funny, how the sea floor here looks exactly like the sea floor anywhere else. And yet, this place is special to Yuri. They are afloat off the coast of Havenport.

Otabek had not wanted to come back here. But it was only for a job, Yuri had reminded him. They would never set foot in town. They wouldn’t even leave the ship.

They would be perfectly safe. Or at least, as safe as they ever were out on the sea.

No, it didn’t make a difference that that was Havenport, out there on the horizon, close enough that from the deck they could see glints where the sunlight hit the glass window-walls of the old factories.

Their life there was long gone.

Seven years gone, to be exact.

But nevertheless, down deep in the sea like this, it was easy to remember the years below; those first sixteen years of Yuri’s life, when he had lived, and breathed, and fought, and nearly died, for the glory of the Angels.

It had not been easy to let that devotion go.

But the violence of Havenport had put their lives in danger; JJ had gone off the rails, Otabek had shot him to end the madness, and they had had to leave before the Angels got ahold of Otabek to enact revenge. The two of them had built a new life together, little by little: first moving granite slabs in Connecticut, then down the coast to Philadelphia, where Otabek pumped gas and Yuri gave blowjobs for their rent, then back up to New York to serve drinks and dance for the summer boys on Fire Island.

Thinking of Otabek worrying about him up on deck, Yuri checks his saddlebags and prepares to ascend back to the ship. He has six bags full of oysters, attached to the weight at the bottom of his bell. And the crew had only expected to get five bags in this spot. So Yuri reaches up with satisfaction to tug on the rope above his head three times; the signal. And the bell begins to rise through the depths as the crew hauls him up.

In two more days, he and Otabek will head back to Wonderland, a dingy outskirt of Boston where they finally have their own small place. Their income is finally stable, and completely lawful. They even have a few friends, and a silver tabby kitten called Kuzma.

Otabek repairs motorcycles and Yuri waits tables, does a little modeling, and—as he is doing right now—dives for pearls.

He had taken to the latter with a great deal of talent: he was fearless. Neither the intense pressure of the water above him, nor the fearful depth of the descent, nor the claustrophobia of the bell, nor the possibility of something going wrong and leaving him to drown down there, had ever really fazed him.

In fact, Yuri is turning into something of a celebrity in certain Boston circles; the city’s beautiful pearl diver. Artistic black and white photographs of him draped tragically over sharp rocks or tangled prettily in nets hang on the walls of at least four upscale seafood restaurants.

The bell breaks the surface of the water, and is lifted by a small crane into the air, over the guard rail, onto the deck.

Yuri rolls out through the gap between the rim of the bell and the weight on the bottom, before the crew has time to start the lengthy process of detaching the bell from the weight and lifting it off of him with the crane. Yuri has better things to do than stand around and wait for a bunch of old men to do their work "according to safety protocol".

He looks around for Otabek, eager to say good morning. Otabek had still been asleep when Yuri woke up to get in the bell. But before Yuri can find him on the deck, he is distracted by the strange appearance of the sky.

There are no clouds. Or perhaps there are only clouds. But the entire sky is a dull red color, like dried blood or brick dust.

Yuri has never seen a sky like that, not in all his years living by the sea. And he is still gaping at it when he feels a rough hand grasp his arm.

"Get your things, Plisetsky." It is the captain, and he looks grim. "We're debarking for the night. That's a hurricane brewing up there."

Yuri blinks at him, and his mouth falls open stupidly. "A hurricane...in New England?"

"You bet. These skies are not what they used to be, son. Not with these hot summers we've been having."

Yuri is still a little stunned. "But...where are we going?"

"To that town, of course," says the captain, with an impatient slice of his hand toward Havenport.

"No!" Yuri gasps, before he can stop himself. "That...that won't work. We can't go there."

"Well I'm afraid it's that or risk our lives," says the captain dryly. "Don't worry, pretty boy. A little fried dough won't kill ya. Now go find that...that friend of yours, and get him packed up and ready."


	4. Old Scores

“We can’t afford to call off the festivities. Not a single one.” Minako drops her voice low, her expression grim. “We haven’t even covered our event budget yet. If we send them home now, we’d be losing money.”

“We can’t keep three thousand people here during a hurricane,” Mickey hisses. “The minute a telephone pole falls on someone—and it will—we’ll be sued for everything we’re worth.”

“Okay, so as soon as the first raindrop falls, we herd them all inside and get them drunk,” says Minako calmly. “We make them feel like they’re having an adventure. Create a sense of danger. First round of drinks is free; we spike them; and then we start charging double once they’re already drunk." She turns from Mickey to look at Viktor. "This could be an opportunity for us. It could be the most lucrative Volcano Sunday weekend we've had yet."

Mickey glances furtively down the hallway and around the corner into the hotel lobby to make sure that no one is eavesdropping.

Viktor nods thoughtfully at Minako's words. She makes a good point. Nonetheless, they really cannot afford a lawsuit of some kind, and the negative press it would bring, which would harm their reputation as a tourist-friendly town.

Viktor has personally spent more money than he likes to think about to build Havenport's allure as a party destination.

It was all part of the plan to break the cycle of violence and poverty in Havenport.

Ever since the kidnapping of Yuuri, the burning of Northeast end of town, and the murder of Jean-Jaques Leroy, Viktor had been working in tandem with Minako and the Angel Lilia Baranavskaya to soothe animosity between the gangs and rebuild the economy of Havenport. Their strategy was to get a reliable stream of income flowing into town through tourism, and then pour that money into the programs that the town so desperately needed: in the last seven years, they have built a halfway house, a women's shelter, a free daycare, and an orphanage.

Lilia alone had personally set fire to nearly a hundred pounds of addictive narcotics, tied down at least twelve young men to prevent heroin relapses, and organized four raiding parties to rescue sex trafficking victims (most of whom were now employed by Viktor's hotel and Minako's casino.)

Yes, Lilia, Minako, and Viktor make a formidable team. They have gotten Jewels to sweep streets beside Bulls, and even Angels to lay bricks beside Skins.

And the secret of their success, Viktor thinks, really lies in their shared sense of presentation.

Because who could resist one of their raucous seaside weekends; and who could resist blowing far too much money there? There was Midsummer Meltdown; a week-long festival of beach parties and bonfires, where drunk tourists could try their hand at stripping for a grand prize trophy; Havenport Halloween; a beachside masquerade ball where the Hornets mingled anonymously with tourists and gave them the romantic adventures of a lifetime; Spring Weekend; which attracted mostly spring-breakers, and therefore needed to provide little more than cheap vodka and mattresses for fucking; and of course, Volcano Sunday; the late August mardi-gras style street-and-beach festival that culminated in unlimited free "volcano" mixed drinks for everyone who was still upright and partying by Sunday morning.

And yes, Viktor thinks, Minako is right. The show must go on this weekend. There are too many mouths to feed, too many people to house, too many programs to fund, to lose money on their biggest event of the year.

"You are both absolutely right," he says at last, cutting-off Mickey in the middle of a fierce whispered rant about lawsuits. "You are neither of you fools. But, Mickey, Minako's point is the better one. It is a risk to go on, yes, we have to do it. I will--"

But at that moment, Viktor feels a hand on his back, and he turns around to see Yuuri behind him, looking anxious.

They have not seen each other since yesterday morning, because Yuuri was rehearsing all day and Viktor spent the night at the halfway-house dealing with a break-in and keeping watch.

"Hi!" says Viktor brightly. "How are you, my love, is something wrong?"

"Viktor," says Yuuri, "I have to tell you something."

Viktor turns away from Minako and Mickey, who go back to arguing. He takes a step toward Yuuri, looking at him with concern.

"I saw someone...last night...at the beach party," Yuuri says softly. "I can't be sure it was him...it was during my routine. But it looked just like him. And if he's here, and the wrong people figure it out..."

"Who was it?" Viktor asks quietly.

"I..I _think_ it was Otabek Altin." Yuuri bites his lip and looks wide-eyed at Viktor. "I mean, there's nothing we can do, I know that, but...I think we'd better make some sort of plan. Some sort of contingency plan. For if...they figure it out, you know?"

Viktor nods.

He notes, with a grim sense of foreboding, that Minako and Mickey have gone silent behind him. Were they listening to what Yuuri just said? He trusts Minako; knows that she is smart, and premeditating, and can be discreet when it matters.

_But Mickey?_

Times have certainly changed, yes, but Mickey was once an Angel...one of the gang's most active members when Otabek Altin betrayed them and fled...

Viktor clears his throat. "Know this, Yuuri;" he says, very pointedly, in a clear voice that he knows Yuuri will understand is intended for the eavesdroppers. "If that person really has returned to town, then he will have our protection while he is here. We don't want any violence. Not this weekend, of all times. And we need everyone focused on this weekend's activities, not on drudging up old grievances and settling old scores. So. Should anyone threaten his safety in Havenport, they will have to deal with me."

Viktor is not sure, but he thinks he can hear Mickey shift restlessly behind him.


	5. A Traitor in Town

Otabek shifts his weight in his right foot to his left, and back again.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his thick workman’s pants, and tries to lower his hunched shoulders; to soften the tense lines of his body into something less prey-like. Less conspicuous. 

He glances around the hotel lobby. There is a gaggle of tourists on some lounge couches in the corner, already drunk at noon and talking far too loudly. 

He is glad of this. The more loud and obnoxious the group is, the more they will distract attention from the group of disembarked sailors waiting at the front desk; Yuri and Otabek in their midst. 

Otabek does not recognize any of the security guards in the lobby, and this is a blessing too. Anyone that he recognizes is likely to recognize _him_. 

But a moment later, a tall, graceful man appears in the lobby, and Otabek’s stomach drops with anxiety. 

_Fuck._

_Viktor Nikiforov_ \--older than the last time Otabek saw him, but still ingratiating and handsome-- strides over to the front desk. He casts a breezy smile over the expectant crew of thirty or so sailors that is crowding his lobby, and holds out his hands in a gesture of welcome. 

“You all look like you could use a drink,” he says cheerfully, and a few of the sailors let out appreciative laughs. It is true: they do look a little rough around the edges, after four days and three nights at sea, and now the threat of a hurricane forcing them to take shelter in an unfamiliar town. Nikiforov’s eyes scan the group of them, taking this in, and Otabek sidesteps quietly behind a taller man. 

He senses Yuri, to his right, doing the same.

Viktor Nikiforov is almost certain to know them both by sight, although it is true that Yuri, at least, looks very different than he did when he left Havenport seven years ago. Now twenty-two, he is tall and eye-catching, with creamy skin and light, soft hair that hangs all the way to his middle-back. He wears a thin golden hoop in his nose and a small glass gem dangles from his right ear. He is still sharp and angular, but the perpetual shadows of a starving and angry animal have smoothed out of his face. He draws the eye, even in his shapeless rubber diving suit, which he is still wearing. And if Viktor Nikiforov gets a good enough look in his eyes, he is sure to recognize the raised-by-wolves ferocity of that scrappy Angel boy he once kidnapped and held ransom to get his own Yuuri back. 

They _never_ should have agreed to sail near the coast of Havenport. Not for a thousand pearly oyster beds. 

Otabek doesn’t care so much about the target on his own back. But that target, by extension, will be on _Yuri’s_. If Otabek knows anything about the Angels, he knows that they will consider Yuri a traitor too; a traitor who failed to give his life when he should have for the gang. A traitor who helped their leader JJ’s murderer escape from their justice. A traitor who never came back to them. 

“Unfortunately, we are almost completely full at the moment,” Viktor Nikiforov is saying to the group of sailors. “This is a busy weekend here in Havenport. But I do have one more suite where we can squeeze you in. You will be completely safe from the storm…although I’m afraid that most of you will have to sleep on the floor. We’ll offer it to you free of charge, to make up for that!” 

Nikiforov brushes a sheet of silver hair out of his eyes as he jots down a note on the floorplan on the desk. “We can also offer you all Bloody Mary’s, on the house, and a visit to your room from some of our wonderful escorts.” 

“Escorts?” The captain asks, cocking an eyebrow with ill-disguised eagerness. 

“Yes. Not strictly employees of the hotel, so I’m afraid their services are not free. But they are certainly able to…enhance your stay in Havenport.” He gives another ingratiating smile, and several of the men look around at each other in excitement. 

“We’ll take them!” says the captain without hesitation, and several of the men laugh and guffaw. “Send them on up!” 

“Certainly.” Nikiforov smiles again and passes the captain a little envelope with the room number written on the outside. “Enjoy your stay. And make sure to go see the Santa Maria parade later this evening on the beach.” 

Yuri glances at Otabek as the other sailors give their enthusiastic thanks, and they all begin to move toward the stairs. Otabek's eyes meet Yuri's, and a silent thought passes between them: _Who are these “escorts”? And if we know them, how are we going to get through tonight undiscovered here?_


	6. The Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> Nonconsensual use of sleep drugs  
> Georgi is a huge fucking creep  
> References to sibling incest  
> Sexual addiction  
> References to underage sex  
> A pretty twisted sexual situation  
> References to bleeding during sex

Georgi could look at her all day. Could serve her all his life. He could easily spend forever like this; falling asleep beside her each night, waking up beside her each morning. 

He doesn’t need sex. His love is pure. 

He will always keep her safe. 

She is stirring now. 

_Anya._

Georgi reaches out for her cheek, sitting beside her on the little cot. “Coming back to me, my darling?” he whispers. 

Her eyelids are fluttering. And after a moment, they open. 

She looks at him, and her pupils contract. She shrinks back as though slapped. 

It hurts every time. 

“Where am I?” she gasps. 

“You’re with me.” 

He lifts a straw to her lips; a protein shake. Everything that she will need. 

She is afraid of him. But she is hungry and thirsty, so she drinks, like she always does. Protein, vitamins, salts, and minerals…and the magic draught to make her sleep again. 

Georgi looks into her lovely dark eyes as they become confused. Her pupils expand again as her body relaxes, and it is just like the way that she used to gaze at him across their bed, so many years ago. Smitten; helpless and weak with love. 

She will fall back into it again eventually; she will see. But for now, Georgi will take what he can get. 

Her eyes roll back in her head as her eyelids flutter closed again, and she falls back onto the thick, comfortable pillow, asleep again. 

_Silly girl. Always sleeping when her prince is right here by her side._

Georgi strokes a lock of her thick dark hair, rolls a soft curl between his fingers. 

The magic potion won’t harm the unborn baby; a kindness that Georgi knows he did not have to perform. He went to great lengths to ensure it. 

She is eight months pregnant, with the baby of that _monster_ \-- Georgi shudders to think of it—that villain who stole her from him, forced her into a marriage, and then impregnated her. 

Poor Anya will not want the baby. She does not even know she is pregnant, most likely, as she has been peacefully asleep under his protection for the last seven and a half months. 

As Georgi sees it, the unborn one is innocent in all of this. But she cannot raise it as an Angel; not when it was the seed of that other man. He will deliver it, and leave it somewhere for some tourists to find. They’ll take it away. 

The engine of a motorcycle cuts outside. 

“Georgi?” 

A voice echoes through the cave, and Georgi turns around quickly. He steps out of Anya’s little chamber of rock and draws the curtain behind him. 

It is Michele’s voice, and a moment later, Michele steps into the mouth of the cave, his lips tight with what Georgi can already tell will be grim news. 

*

Georgi emerges from a sub-chamber of the cave, drawing a curtain behind him. He is dressed all in black, his makeup almost perfectly immaculate, except for the line of his left eyebrow, which has smudged across his forehead. 

His eyes rest on Mickey’s face only for a moment, and then dart over his body and around the cave. More and more lately, Georgi’s eyes seem unable to focus on the physical world. He is retreating more and more into his mind, and Mickey worries about him. 

But he is still the leader of the Angels, so Mickey will follow him to the ends of logic and reason, and beyond. 

“Georgi,” Mickey takes a step forward. “I have to tell you something. You are not going to like it.” 

Georgi holds up a black-gloved hand. “Does it have to do with your progress? Tell me first about that.” 

Mickey drops his eyes to the ground, a familiar twist of shame in his gut. 

“It is…not bad,” he says. “I have only longed for her at night…and only three times imagined her…” 

“Imagined what?” Georgi says sharply. 

“Imagined my hand to be her body.” 

Georgi hisses air out between his teeth. “That is not _good enough_ , Michele. You must _strike her_ from your mind and body forever as anything but a sister. Each time you lust for her, you contribute to our deterioration. If you love the Angels as you say you do, you will _obliterate_ this shameful habit from your soul.” 

Mickey may be broken, but he is still proud. And he feels angry heat rise in his cheeks. 

“I am doing _well_! There was a time when she and I made love every night and every morning. When we were so desperate for each other that we did it in the mop closets at school! You can’t expect me to just _forget_ that in a few short months!” 

For a moment, Mickey thinks that Georgi is going to spit fire at him. But then, Georgi’s face suddenly softens. “You are right, Michele. I am sorry. I must have patience with you both.” 

Mickey huffs out a sigh, vindicated. 

“You understand why I must be severe,” Georgi goes on. “The Angels are an endangered kind. We have little left but our honor.” 

“Yes.” 

Mickey drops his eyes again, and fights the burning desire to _ask_ about Sara. But Georgi seems to read his mind, and he says, “She is doing better than you are. But I am afraid that her strategies may be more dubious.” 

Mickey looks up sharply. “What do you mean?” 

“It is not your concern. I am dealing with her.” 

Mickey begins to protest, but Georgi holds up a hand and takes a step forward. “We won’t discuss it any further. Now tell me what you came here to tell me, Michele.” 

Mickey does not like the sound of Sara employing “dubious strategies” to forget her addiction to him. His soul cries out to him to find her, _protect_ her, but his soul is a disgrace to the honor of his gang. 

So he sighs, and sets his mind on something _useful_ he can do. And that, right now, is setting loose the arc of vengeance that the Angels have craved for seven years. 

“Otabek Altin is in Havenport,” he tells Georgi. “Viktor Nikiforov’s pig saw him, in the crowd at their disgusting strip festival, yesterday. Masked but unmistakable.” 

Georgi’s eyes widen and the muscles of his throat constrict as he stops breathing. He stares at Mickey like a death mask for several moments, and then lets out his breath in one rush. Then he reaches up with shaking gloved hands and cups Mickey’s face rapturously. 

“You are exquisite,” he breathes. “Our prophet. First keeping an eye for us on Nikiforov and the Skins, and now this. If we _get_ him, all you’ve ever done will be redeemed, Michele. I want to see that for you. _For JJ._ We’ll mount Otabek’s head on a stake and let it officiate your wedding to Sara, honor be damned.” 

Mickey knows that Georgi is only raving. He will never be permitted to touch Sara again, and he knows that he shouldn’t anyway. But the praise from his leader feels good, and he leans into Georgi’s touch. 

“I’ll gather up the men,” he says. “Bring them here first so you can organize them. We’ll hunt him out tonight. He'll be dead by sunrise.” 

“ _Yes_.” Georgi’s eyes shine. 

“Take the edge off for me first, Georgi?” Mickey presses in a little closer. “I’ve done well.” 

Georgi growls and strides away across the cave. He rifles through a dresser and pulls out a tube of lube, then comes back to grab Mickey by the arm and lead him to the wall at the mouth of the cave. 

One of Georgi’s hands grips roughly at the nape of Mickey’s neck, and pushes him up against the wall. The other wrenches down the back of Mickey’s pants. 

Mickey gasps and presses his bared ass back against the groin of Georgi’s pants. He needs this. Needs a sharp intrusion of pleasure to take the edge off of his sex-starved misery. 

The ocean crashes against the rocks below the cave’s entrance. Mickey can smell granite in the rock close to his face. He feels Georgi’s cold fingers slick over his asshole and begin to slide him open. 

“That’s enough,” Mickey gasps, after a few moments. “Just give it to me.” 

Georgi unzips his fly, and a moment later the slicked head of his cock presses against Mickey’s asshole, and breaches him. 

They both gasp as Georgi shoves inside. 

“Always so tight,” Georgi murmurs, his voice gravelly in Mickey’s ear. “You take the edge off for me too.” 

Mickey groans as Georgi begins to presses and tug in and out of him. Each thrust shoves Mickey’s hips up against the wall. 

“Don’t think of Sara,” Georgi rasps. “Think of JJ. Think of the night he initiated you.” 

Mickey lets his forehead fall against the wall and groans as Georgi starts to go harder. 

“Did you bleed, that night?” 

“Yes,” Mickey gasps. 

“Well done,” Georgi whispers, his voice getting breathier. “Bleeding for JJ and for the Angels.” 

When Mickey moans, Georgi says it again. “Well done. You take it so well, Mickey.” 

They are both still fully clothed, only Georgi’s fly open and the back of Mickey’s pants pulled down, but Georgi reaches down the front of Mickey’s pants to fist at the head of his erection. 

“Do you want to know a secret?” he murmurs in Mickey’s ear. “I initiated Otabek myself, remember? When he was sixteen. And he bled too. He bled all over the back seat of Yakov’s car. But I licked it off his thighs, and I’ll tell you what--” 

Georgi shoves harder with a little gasp, aroused by the memory. “Who would have thought a traitor’s blood could taste so sweet?”


	7. A Bridge Too Far

They are not going to get a chance to make a plan, here. 

Yuri’s heart speeds up as he rolls out his sleeping pad in a corner of the hotel suite. 

The suite is huge, but it is packed to the gills as the two and a half dozen sailors stretch out their sleeping pads and drop their packs. 

Yuri takes advantage of the chatter of conversation around them to lean over to Otabek, who is unrolling his own sleeping pad on the floor beside Yuri’s. 

“What the fuck do we do if we know the hookers?” he whispers. 

“Stay calm,” Otabek murmurs. “Read the moment. Try to blend in.” 

“But I suck at that!” Yuri hisses indignantly. 

“You don’t. It’ll be okay.” 

Yuri’s heart is beating way too fast. He _hates_ being afraid. It’s a stupid, pointless waste of energy and it makes him mad. 

“This is bullshit,” he hisses. “We should never have taken this job.” 

“Just do what the other sailors do,” Otabek says softly. He does not sound afraid, which is annoying. _Is Yuri the only one freaking out, here?!_

“Oh yeah?! And what if they go out to ‘mingle with the locals’?!” 

“Then we go with them and act natural. We don’t want the sailors discussing us either. Anyone here could overhear them. Just do whatever they do, and we’re just another couple of tourists. If we see someone we know, we’ll blend in with the crowds.” 

“Fine,” Yuri snaps. He presses his hands down hard into his sleeping pad to make them stop shaking. 

The only thing that Yuri fears anymore, in the entire stupid world, is something happening to Otabek. Before they left, he used to worry about his place with the Angels. _Would he ever be able to bring honor to them? To make his dead mother and grandfather proud? Or would he live his life as a worthless burden to himself and everyone around him?_ Now, honor and pride don’t matter quite so much to him. _Survival_ has been their main concern for so many years. As long as Otabek is okay, everything else in Yuri’s life is workable. But in the belly of the beast, like this… 

“It will be okay, Yura,” Otabek whispers. “We made it out once and we’ll make it out again.” 

“Promise?” 

In answer, Otabek unties the top of his sea pack, and tilts it down just enough that Yuri can see the pistol and packet of bullets lying at the top. “I promise.” 

*

“Georgi?” 

Mila steps into the mouth of Georgi’s seaside cave and looks around for him. 

The oil lamps are burning, casting flickering light on the neat cot and bedpan in the corner, the washing basin, the sea chest that holds Georgi’s carefully-folded clothes. Georgi has been living here for seven and a half months, and the Angels have been using it as a sort of home base, away from the increased law enforcement presence in town. They are storing money, and narcotics here. But Georgi doesn’t like anyone coming by when he is not around. 

“Georgi? It’s me!” Mila calls out. But there is no answer. 

_That’s strange._ Georgi is normally so meticulous. _Why would he leave the oil lamps burning?_ He must have left in a hurry. 

Mila’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she pulls it out to see a smiling picture of Viktor on the screen. She strides quickly out of the cave, and sits down on a rock on the beach to take the call. If by some chance Georgi _is_ home, he’ll throw a fit if he hears her talking to Viktor Nikiforov. Georgi is furious that some of the Angels are associating with Skins and other gangs. 

But if Mila spent her whole life trying to keep Georgi happy, she’d be institutionalized. And there are things that are much more important to her than old rivalries. She is a part of the work to put Havenport back together. 

Mila puts the phone to her ear. “Hi Viktor.” 

“Hi Mila. How are you? Do you think you and Sara can take some clients tonight?” 

“I can. Sara’s in the parades all day though, remember?” 

“Oh, right. Okay, well ask her if she wants to, will you? Because we could put Yuuko in as Maria instead and I think Yuuko would like to have tonight home with her girls.” 

“Okay, I’ll ask her.” 

“Great. There’s this big group of sailors and I think they’ll be good for some cash. Get them out of the hotel, if you can. It would be good to have them spending money in the street. I’ve already got a bunch of Jewel ladies who said they can do it, and I’ll send Leo and Christophe with you, so you can all meet up in the hotel bar in about an hour and a half, if that works.” 

“Sounds good. I’ll text you about Sara.” 

“Okay, thanks! See you in a bit.” 

“Bye!” Mila hangs up and fires off a text to Sara. 

Sara will drop everything else and come, Mila knows that: Sara loves their prostitution gigs. They’ve been helping her let off the steam of her addiction to Mickey. Sometimes Mila worries about her; the way she takes guy after guy, fucking them all like she just discovered dick. 

But she does love it when the two of them warm up together; kissing and rubbing each other’s breasts through their clothes, teasing each other and withholding mercilessly until they work each other up to the sort of desperation that makes fucking three or four strangers actually fun. 

Mila knows it doesn’t _mean_ anything to Sara. It’s just a means to an end for her, fooling around with Mila. 

And Mila really just has to learn to be okay with that. 

Despite the very real butterflies that she feels in her stomach when Sara smiles and leans in to kiss her. Despite Sara’s kindness, and intelligence, and beautiful determination. Despite the silky softness, and the smell of violets in her hair… 

Despite everything that Sara is, that Mila has always admired, and--more recently--desired too. Her best friend, and her princess... 

But _no_ , no. It's not like that for Sara. 

Mila snaps her mind away from that useless line of thought and swings her backpack onto Georgi’s rug. She begins to rifle through it, pulling out a pair of heels, a mask, and a short dress. _This’ll work fine. They’re a bunch of sailors, they’ll be easily impressed._

She looks around for somewhere to change that is out of sight of the open mouth of the cave. As she does so, she notices a notification on the screen of her phone, lying beside her bag on the carpet. 

It’s a new message from Georgi. 

…three new messages, in fact. 

It’s fine. He’s probably just calling to rant about something insane. She’ll deal with it later. 

There’s a curtain closing off another sub-section of the cave, which Georgi is probably using as a closet. She can change in there. 

She stands up, and pulls the curtain aside. 

_What the--?!!_

Mila drops her dress and shoes, and claps both hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. 

Lying on a cot behind the curtain, her wrists and ankles cuffed down, is Georgi’s ex-girlfriend, Anya. She is asleep, not dead, _at least_ : her chest is rising and falling deeply. But her face is chalky pale, like she hasn’t seen sunlight for weeks, or _months. How fucking long has she been here?_. 

Mila thinks frantically back to when Georgi moved, over half a year ago. No one had really understood why he wanted to live in a cave outside of town…so isolated and so remote. 

_Jesus Christ._ Oh, Jesus Christ. 

Mila stares down at Anya, reaches out with a shaking hand to feel her body temperature, and notices something else, which her shocked eyes had not taken-in at first. 

Anya is pregnant. _Very_ pregnant. 

Mila leans back against the wall to take some deep breaths. 

She has dealt with Georgi’s madness all her life. He is her gang brother, and now her leader, and for as long as she can remember, she has been protecting him, and enabling him, trying her best to guide him in the right direction. But this… 

This is a bridge too far. 

Mila takes another deep breath, and moves into action. She pulls the curtain back in place, crosses the room for her phone, and texts Sara. 

“Georgi emergency. Call Viktor and go without me tonight. Be safe.” 

Then she flips to speed dial and calls Yakov, raising the phone to her ear with a clammy, shaking hand.


	8. The Wheel

Six escorts, thirty sailors, and two former Angels with their heads down. 

The group moves out into the crowded, neon evening at the carnival. 

Yuri and Otabek have split up to be less conspicuous, blending in on either side of the group. 

The sky fades from orange-red to sooty black, and music blares from all sides; a beaten boom-box on the beach, an old man with an accordion by a fried dough stand, a makeshift dance-floor where drunken tourists are trying to cha-cha. 

Viktor Nikiforov and the escorts had regaled the sailors with several rounds of Bloody Marys before they struck out onto the beachfront, and most of them are poached medium drunk and giddy with the unexpected on-shore adventure that this night has brought. 

Yuri and Otabek drank only a little, though they pretended to drink a lot more, to blend in. They needed to have their wits about them. 

Otabek is enormously grateful for the simple black carnival masks that were passed around in the hotel restaurant. With these masks on and Yuri’s distinctive platinum hair hidden under his hoodie, Otabek and Yuri blend seamlessly into the tight crowd. 

_If they can just get through this night…_ There might be some discreet way to stay in the hotel room tomorrow. They could probably feign hangovers, and insist on staying curled up inside their sleeping bags all day…there would surely be other sailors doing the same. 

They just have one major problem to deal with tonight. 

And her name is Sara Crispino. 

Sara walks near the head of the group, her open-backed tube dress displaying in full the angel’s wings tattooed on her back. 

To the rest of the crowd, it’s just some pretty ink on a pretty woman. 

But to Yuri, Otabek, and Sara, it’s the mark of lifelong service, sacrifice, and warfare for the Angels. 

She hasn’t seen them yet. And Otabek intends to keep it that way. 

But it will require careful attention and improvisation, moment by moment. 

They all stop at a stand to buy tickets for the rides. Otabek takes the opportunity to glance around: no one else known is in the crowd, as far as he can tell. Although there are plenty of people in masks…

Otabek glances at Yuri to check on him, and finds Yuri looking back at him, trying to catch his eye. 

Yuri’s face is pale, and his eyes a little wide under his mask. 

He jerks his head to the left, and Otabek follows his movement with his eyes, scanning the crowd. His hand floats automatically into the deep pocket of his leather jacket to wrap around the handle of his gun, and his finger rests on the safety. 

It takes him several moments to find what Yuri has seen…but then his eyes settle on a motorcycle parked beside a line of port-a-potties. He recognizes the large headlights, the width of the wheels, the shape of the body…

It’s a lot more dinged-up than when he saw it last, but that, without a doubt, is Georgi’s old motorcycle. 

And the cherry-red, edge-rusted one behind it? Definitely Mickey’s.

_Are they here?_

_Fuck._

Otabek’s eyes flick from the ticket stand to the tilt-a-whirl, to the lifeguard tower a little ways down the beach. 

_They could be anywhere._

“Let’s ride the Ferris wheel, boys!” one of the escorts is calling out. It’s almost impossible to hear her over the crowd, but she is clearly initiating some sort of pre-arranged plan, because the other escorts are shepherding the men in the direction that she points: toward the huge, flashing wheel with its forty-or-so candy red compartments that dangle in uniform over the scene.

“Each man gets his own compartment!” Another of the escorts calls, and Otabek begins to suspect that this ride might not be about enjoying the scenery. 

He weighs their options, and glances at Yuri again. 

Yuri gives a little nod, and Otabek reads his meaning: he prefers their chances up high in the Ferris wheel to their chances here with Georgi and Mickey somewhere close by in the crowd. 

That decides it, then. 

Otabek waits his turn as the wheel slows, the former passengers disembark, and they begin to board one by one. 

Yuri is at least twenty compartments away, already high above him when Otabek’s compartment begins to rise. And Otabek looks carefully below him as more and more of the town comes into his sight. 

Strange to see it from this angle…the streets, corners…streetlights he knows so well. The little New England houses, crowded together in the Italian-American style. The liquor stores and the factories on the waterfront…

But this is no time to get sentimental. Jesus, no.

Otabek passes over the top of the wheel, so high he can see the ocean on either side of Havenport’s tiny peninsula. And then he begins to descend again. 

The Ferris wheel stops periodically, and each compartment hangs, swaying slightly, in stasis. Otabek can’t see Yuri through the spokes of the central wheel, but everything seems to be just fine so far. 

When they have gone around twice, the Ferris wheel comes to a hault with Otabek’s compartment at the bottom, next to the ticket man, who stands in a little box next to the boarding stairs. 

And then…oh, _fuck_ …speaking of Italian-Americans…Sara swings herself out of the compartment beside him, straightening her dress.

She strides over to Otabek’s compartment, tucking a wad of cash down her front, and grabs ahold of the top of the compartment to swing herself _in with him _through the open side.__

___Fuck._ He has a few seconds at most before she recognizes him. The mask will do nothing this close: they have known each other all their lives. _ _

__He resists the animal urge to reach for his gun; if she pulls a knife on him, he’ll just have to hold her down until they get back to the ground. He’s _not_ going to hurt Sara. _ _

__Besides, if she is armed…it is with a _very_ well-concealed weapon. There aren’t a lot of places she could be hiding one in her ankle-wrapping heels or the short, sequined tube dress that clings very tightly to her figure. The soft tops of her breasts burst out of it in a way that is…definitely slowing Otabek’s reaction time. _ _

__She sits down on the seat across from him with a pretty smile and tosses her soft, dark hair a little. “How’s your shore leave treating you so far, sailor?”_ _

__But on the last word, her violet eyes widen on his and her smile drops._ _

__“Well, it’s not my ideal port to dock in…” Otabek holds up his hands as their compartment begins to rise again._ _

__“ _Beka_?” She whispers his name and glances furtively down at the crowd._ _

__When Otabek doesn’t answer, she leans forward and jerks at the sleeve of his jacket, pulling it down over his wrist. The coiled cobra tattoo bares its fangs at her, and she drops the sleeve and stares at him with her mouth open._ _

___“Why would you come back here _?” she hisses. “ _Do you know_ what they’d like to do to you? Mickey? Georgi, Seung-Gil?”___ _

____“Not you?” Otabek asks, his voice low and steady._ _ _ _

____They stare at each other intently for several moments._ _ _ _

____“No,” she says finally. “Not me.”_ _ _ _

____There is another long pause as they stare into each others’ eyes, so familiar and yet so new after so much time, and then she says, her voice low, “let’s talk about it after the carnival. When the other escorts have gone. I’m not saying that I trust you, Otabek. But…there are other things I’d like to do to you. If you want it.”_ _ _ _

____She sinks to her knees in front of him, tugging at the bottom of her dress to adjust it again, and looks up at him to gauge his reaction._ _ _ _

____“Free of charge.” She grins._ _ _ _

____He looks down at her steadily, only his breath hitching a little._ _ _ _

____The neon lights of the ride dance off of the violet sequins on her dress, like she is sparkling with fire. She was always _that girl_. The one that everyone wanted, and no one could have. _ _ _ _

____She starred in _many_ of Otabek’s adolescent fantasies, second only to Yuri in her stardom. _ _ _ _

____And he and Yuri have an agreement: it’s fine to sleep with other people, as long as those people are women, and there’s no love feelings involved. They’ve tested it before, and it’s been working out fine._ _ _ _

____But if there’s _anything_ Otabek could do to get himself into even hotter water with the male contingent of the Angels, it’s probably sleeping with Sara. _ _ _ _

____She runs her hand up his thigh, still looking up at him inquisitively, and he lets himself give in to desire as their compartment rises up, higher and higher into the air._ _ _ _

____He nods his consent, looking down at her as she smiles, unbuttons his pants and draws his fly. She stretches the waistband of his underwear to pull it down, baring the thick shaft of him, and she gives a little gasp of excitement._ _ _ _

____A moment later, her pretty lips are wrapped around him, and she is sliding his length into the wetness of her mouth, crouched between his legs on the floor of the compartment._ _ _ _

____She moans around him, excited by his size, and reaches up to grab his hands and guide them down onto her breasts._ _ _ _

____He watches her, his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed with arousal, as she squirms on the compartment floor, shoving her breasts into his hands with her mouth full of him. She presses her legs together a little as the short dress rides up her thighs._ _ _ _

____They are in a very public place, quite possible visible to people on the ground who have the right angle and good eyesight. But this lack of privacy only adds to Otabek’s wanting. He is very hard, and beginning to throb, and it doesn’t help when she pops his cock out of her mouth with a loud, filthy wet sound._ _ _ _

____She looks up at him with those doe eyes shining._ _ _ _

____“I’ve wanted to fuck you for a long time, Beka…” she says. “Since I was a teenager. Of course, I couldn’t…but I’m a woman now. I do whatever I like.”_ _ _ _

____“Do it now, then,” Otabek breathes. “Anything you like.”_ _ _ _

____They are nearing the top of the Ferris wheel. Sara rises from the floor and sits on him, straddling his lap. She reaches in between her breasts and pulls a condom from inside her bra. She tears it open expertly and slides it onto him._ _ _ _

____Otabek runs a hand over her bare thigh. He makes to slide his hand between her legs, but she pushes his hand aside, gentle but impatient. “I’m ready.” She takes ahold of his shaft as she wriggles toward him, guiding his cock up under her dress._ _ _ _

____Otabek feels resistance; a thin strip of lace--her underwear--is in the way. But her body is buttery and hot underneath, and she tugs the underwear aside with one hand and with the other guides the head of his cock to slide between the top of her lips._ _ _ _

____Her bare back arches a little as she presses her clit against the head of his cock and holds him still while she rubs herself against him._ _ _ _

____“Yes,” she gasps. “ _Fuck, oh_ …you’re exactly what I need, Beka.”_ _ _ _

____She leans in as she lifts herself. Her breasts press, firm, against his chest, as she aligns their bodies. And then she sits down on him slowly, stretching her heat around his hard cock._ _ _ _

____She lets out a little cry with the pleasure of the entry, and Otabek’s breath shudders. He moans too, as she starts to move, sliding up and down on him, her arms propped on the top of the seat behind him for leverage._ _ _ _

____Her body is so wet and ready; she has clearly already fucked several of the other men. But she’s definitely not satisfied either._ _ _ _

____She starts to move faster, but Otabek fights to hold still and let her steer the ship. She is making herself moan on him, and he is not about to disrupt her system here. Instead, he just runs his hands over her hips, up the curves of her waist, and over the sequins on her breasts as he watches her face._ _ _ _

____She is biting her lip, her brow creased with concentration, as she slides his cock in and out of her under her skirt. Their hanging compartment rocks, ever so slightly. Otabek can hear its hinges creaking._ _ _ _

____His pleasure and his need are building, and he can’t help but push back a little. He brings his hands back to her hips for leverage, and lets himself thrust a few times, matching her rhythm._ _ _ _

____She gives a gasping moan of pleasure and crushes her mouth against his, biting him on the lip, and he moans back and keeps thrusting, letting himself go harder and deeper as her sounds get louder and more obscene._ _ _ _

____Her thighs start to shake, and the muscles of her vagina flutter around him, tightening and loosening with ripples of pleasure in her body. Otabek knows the feeling of a woman near climax, and this is it._ _ _ _

____They have come over the top and they are more than halfway down the other side: they don’t have long before they will be in plain view of the crowd._ _ _ _

____But he can probably get her to finish before that, if he focuses._ _ _ _

____He wraps his hands around the side of her hips and her ass, pulling her onto him again and again as he presses up, keeping their rhythm locked for several thrusts._ _ _ _

____Then he slides two fingers into his mouth and then up under her dress. He finds her clitoris and rubs lightly over the head, side to side as she starts to twist and press against his fingers._ _ _ _

____“Beka,” she gasps, “ _y-yes_. You’re— _yes_. I always knew you’d be so… _so_ good.”_ _ _ _

____She suddenly spreads her legs wide, shoving herself onto him as her head falls back and she makes a loud, squealing moan. Her vagina spasms and clenches around him as she cums, and he lets himself go too, groaning against her neck as he ejaculates._ _ _ _

____They aren’t far from the ground; it’s very possible that someone could have seen that. But Otabek can’t find it in him to care as the satisfaction of his orgasm washes over him._ _ _ _

____Sara bobs up and down a few more times on his soft cock, and then slides him out and shifts back to sit on his knees, still straddling him._ _ _ _

____“Well then,” she says breathily, brushing a few sweaty strands of hair back from her face. “Let’s do this again later, when we talk in private.” She takes a moment to catch her breath, and then opens her mouth to say something else._ _ _ _

____But Otabek never learns what it is._ _ _ _

____Because at that moment, there is a hideous creaking, crunching sound. And suddenly, Otabek feels the rising sensation of _freefall_ in his stomach. _ _ _ _

____Their compartment has _fallen off of the wheel.__ _ _ _


	9. Brothers

_Crash._

Yuri’s compartment jerks, and he is left swinging, as the Ferris wheel grinds to a halt. He is halfway up the side of the wheel, and he has to crane his neck to see the source of the noise, and the sudden commotion that is taking place on the ground. 

A crowd is gathering around-- _what?_ \--around a compartment from the Ferris wheel, which has fallen from its hinges and onto the asphalt. Two people climb out of the damaged compartment, and in flashing neon lights from the tilt-a-whirl beside them, it takes Yuri a moment to realize that they are Otabek and Sara. 

“ _Fuck_.” Yuri breathes. His heart-rate suddenly becomes very fast and he feels a little nauseous. Sara looks unhurt, but Otabek is clutching his arm. _It’s broken_ , Yuri would bet on it. 

_What the fuck happened?_

Otabek and Sara are attracting a lot of attention. Their fall knocked two porta-potties over, and dark blue fluid spreads over the asphalt around them like blue blood. 

People are pressing in around them, reaching out to see if they are okay. Several people have pulled their phones out, probably to call an ambulance. This is not good at all; Yuri needs to get down there. 

But the fucking Ferris wheel has stopped. 

He tries jumping, once, in the vain hope that his momentum will make it move. Then when it doesn’t, he makes up his mind and sticks his head out through the open top of the door. 

He hoists himself out, and rolls onto the roof of the compartment. It’s disconcerting, being so far off the ground and with nothing resembling a harness. But he forces himself to look ahead, instead of down, as he climbs up onto the giant wheel spoke that connects his compartment to the rest of the ride. 

_He dives to extreme depths to make his living now, why should he shy away from extreme heights? He’s practically fucking invincible these days._

It’s easy to move along the spoke: he grabs ahold of the thick plastic neon light bulbs and uses them to scoot himself forward. 

He is at least ninety feet off the ground, and when he accidentally looks down, his stomach turns. “ _Jesus_ ,” he breathes, and grits his teeth. 

But it’s alright: once he gets to the center of the wheel, he can climb through the horizontal poles at its center, and onto a spoke on the other side that’s pointed for the ground. He can slide his way down. 

_But can he get there in time? Before the wrong people see Otabek?_

*

Otabek’s arm is blazing. It feels unbearably hot, and it throbs, but he has not registered the pain yet. It will hit once he is out of danger: he knows that much from fighting. It will hurt, and more importantly, it will be useless.

It is his gun arm.

His heart pounds frantically with the terror of freefall and injury. But other than his arm, he is unhurt. Sara is unhurt too, though she looks like her legs might fail her. Several men have already dashed forward valiantly to support her. 

There are people pressing in around Otabek. But he has to get away from this attention. His mind spins. _Where is Yuri?_

Still on the Ferris wheel, of course. Trapped in his compartment. 

Otabek moves, as discreetly as he can, to the edge of the ring of people around him, and tries to slide back into the crowd. But he is stopped by an older man in several pounds worth of mardi gras beads, who grips the shoulder of his good arm. 

“We’ve got an ambulance coming for you, son.” 

“No,” says Otabek, quickly. “I don’t need it.” 

“That’s a broken arm, if ever I saw one. Trust me, I’m a doctor.” 

Otabek casts an anxiously around them. “It doesn’t matter, I need to--”

“You need to have that looked at,” the older man says severely. “Are you a local here? I’ll pay for the treatment, son. Alright? It’s alright.”

“No,” Otabek says quickly, “I’m not a local here. I’m--”

“ _Altin! _” A voice rings out, over the sounds of the crowd around them, the music from the merry-go-round nearby. “ _Otabek Altin!_ ”__

____

Seung-gil Lee shoves his way into the ring of people. He is shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans. His muscled torso is studded with ink; a series of dates on his hip bone, a crown over his left pec. The spread of black angel wings across his shoulder blades. His face is triumphant and his eyes are full of murder. “Not a local anymore, no. Just passing through on his way to hell.” 

__

__Seung-gil has a pistol in his hand._ _

__

__Guang Hong Ji and Emil Nekola shove through the crowd behind him. They are both similarly dressed, and armed. Their eyes lock onto Otabek and hold him like a vice._ _

__

__The crowd falls silent after a few gasps, and people begin to draw back in fear._ _

__

__Otabek turns slowly around. He faces Seung-gil, silently._ _

__

__“Would you like to kneel for your execution?” Seung-gil asks pleasantly. “Or are you going to try to run again? We’ll have no problem with shooting you in the back this time, snake.”_ _

__

__Nekola laughs a little at that, and Guang Hong lets out a quiet hiss through his teeth._ _

__

__“Seung-gil.” Sara pulls away from the men around her and takes several steps toward Seung-gil. “No. Don’t do this here. There are innocent people--”_ _

__

__“Oh, they don’t want to see this?” Seung-gil raises his eyebrows and looks around at the crowd with feigned surprise. “I thought they were here to see Havenport. They want to drink and smoke and fuck our culture, they can stomach this. This is what it’s really like.”_ _

__

__He raises his gun and points it at Otabek. “ _Kneel!_ ” He clicks the safety off._ _

__

__Otabek does not kneel. He stands completely still, waiting._ _

__

__If he tries to fight, or moves to get away, Seung-gil will shoot. He’ll most likely hit a bystander, or more than one. If Otabek is going to die, he doesn’t want to take innocent people with him._ _

__

“This is the local color,” Seung-gil says loudly, for the surrounding crowd. “A man who shot his brother in the heart. _Kneel_ , Otabek!” His grip tightens on the gun, his knuckles going white. 

__

__A sudden movement draws the crowd’s attention. A tall, elfin figure elbows and shoves his way to the front, and runs to stand between Otabek and Seung-gil. He holds up his hands in front of him._ _

__

Otabek’s heart skips with terror. _No,_ no _. Get out of here._

__

Seung-gil, Guang Hong, and Nekola glare at the newcomer, ready to fight. But then their eyes begin to widen, and Seung-gil’s grip on the gun almost slips.  


__

_“… _Yurio?_ ”_

__


	10. Playing Judas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
> Infidelity/Cheating
> 
> EXTREMELY misappropriated and bastardized Christian imagery (to a comedic level)

At the front of the parade, Phichit is twirling fire. 

Wearing red harem pants, a gold headpiece, golden chains draping down his naked chest and back, and Thai fingernail claws, he looks like a flickering flame himself.

Even several floats behind him, Yuuri is having trouble focusing on his own dance. 

Phichit’s dance is meant to represent pain. The pain of Christ, to be exact, as represented by Minako, who is being carried along behind him on a cross, wearing a plunging negligee dress that rises up high enough on her thigh to reveal a crucifix tattoo. 

Behind her, being carried on a float, is Yuuko, filling Sara’s usual role as _la virgen Maria_. She periodically pours water over herself, or flings it over the audience, her tears of grief at Jesus’ crucifixion. She makes sure to mime her sobs hard enough that her breasts shake in her wet white dress. 

And Yuuri, on his own float and leather-bound to a pole, is a tormented Judas. He is wearing nothing but leather pants, a lot of eyeliner, and a few fake tattoos. It’s _really_ not his favorite look: he would much rather be sparkling in some way. But Viktor had insisted. 

“I think they will be spellbound if it is you that plays Judas, Yuuri. Because they will see a good man underneath the costume. An ordinary man who was caught up in a wave. An eruption, you know? A man who made a fatal mistake because something temporarily…possessed him.” 

Viktor had grinned and patted him on the shoulder, and Minako had concurred with his mad vision, and now Yuuri was here in leather pants. 

His dance is not difficult mechanically, but it requires a lot of expression. Viktor had told him to let the pole represent Judas’ guilt: he tries to push it away and finds it immovable; he tries to get free of it but cannot break his bonds; he cannot touch it, for it burns him; and yet he must touch it to get away from it; and also he cannot help but want to touch it, for his guilt makes him want that pain. 

So Yuuri makes tormented love to the pole.

Viktor isn’t here to see him, busy preparing the hotel for the cram of crowds when the storm hits. But Yuuri knows he will see videos at some point, so he does it just the way that he knows his husband wants it; with enough _eros_ to melt Viktor’s face off. 

It makes it easier if he watches Phichit.

Phichit can dance with just his hands…just his _fingers_. He twirls the chain of his fireballs around his palms…twirls one of them around just one curled fingernail claw, and back up to his forearm. 

The rest of his body flashes in the firelight, lithe and graceful. The tapered shape of his body, the slender muscles of his arms and legs. The line between his shoulder blades as he rolls his outstretched arms like a snake, in perfect time with the drums. 

It is the familiarity of it that torments Yuuri, in part. He knows how Phichit dances. Knows how he looks when he’s training...out of breath and flushed and tousled. But he’s never…

 _Never_ what _, exactly?_ Says a sharp voice in Yuuri’s head that sounds rather like Minako. 

Yuuri presses his back to the burning pole and slides down and back up. 

Never gotten Phichit out of breath like that himself. Or made his face hot and his hair a mess. 

Never, in all their years together, even kissed him. 

_And did you_ want _to?_

Yes. Many times. But he had been so afraid of that, so petrified by his own desires for so long. Before Viktor. And so he never had kissed Phichit, or Yuuko, or anyone. Not until Viktor had tilted his chin up, a god-like vision of silver lashes and blue eyes and flattery and _power_.

God, it was Viktor’s fault he’d never…

Yuuri twists one wrist out of its bondage, turns his face from the pole, and presses it away with a disdainful flick of his fingers. 

The crowd, following alongside the parade, is shrieking for him, and a woman near his float is trying to pass him two shot glasses of tequila. 

He knows it’s a bad idea, but he pauses from his routine and stoops to take them from her. He wraps an arm around the pole and leans back to take the first, and then drops lower and arches his whole body back to take the second, and the crowd roars with delight. 

With his head tilted back, Yuuri catches a glimpse of just how dark the sky is. It has faded from red to black; too early in the evening. It can’t be later than 7:30 yet.  


The storm is soon to hit. 

And indeed, Yuuri feels a raindrop on his forehead as he straightens up and goes back to his routine. 

He feels wild. He never gets this sort of rush anymore, when he performs. But he is getting it now: the thrill of being in the spotlight, and being wanted by everyone, and having his choice of lover. If only he only had the courage, at one of his hundreds of shows in the Hornet’s Nest, to just step out into the crowd ask someone home with him.

But no, he had always been too bashful, too hung-up, too _Yuuri_ to do that. 

He had never been wild, or bold, or seductive like Viktor. 

And Viktor had taken the chance from him. Taken that role forever. Taken the wild nights that never existed and the lovers that Yuuri only dreamed of. 

_And Yuuri wants them back._

They are approaching the beach. 

They pass by the carnival, even larger crowds on all sides. In the neon lights, Yuuri can see some sort of commotion taking place by the Ferris wheel. Someone probably caught their husband or wife fucking someone else in a porta-potty. It happens, on Volcano Sunday weekend. 

Another woman passes Yuuri a shot: spiced rum this time, and he takes it and blows her a kiss. She whoops with delight, and a moment later, Yuuri finds several more shot glasses pressed in his direction, and even a can of cherry Smirnoff Ice. 

Raindrops are starting to fall, and the booming synth and bass from the beach is drowning out their drums. The parade is breaking down, as they reach the beach, Yuuri slips out of his bonds and leaps down from the float. 

He downs two more shots, and then makes his way down to the beach, staggering only a little. The other dancers, the devils and angels behind him in the parade, are mingling with the crowd now, and taking shots now too. Minako slides off of her cross and pulls on her overcoat. She sets to work strapping the cross to the top of Celestino’s car. Yuuko dumps a few more props into the back seat, and the two of them climb in to take everything back to the hotel. 

Yuuri and Phichit usually stay after at these parades, to dance a little more and get more money out of the tourists. 

But tonight, Minako looks at Yuuri with some concern, as she rolls down the car window. 

“Hey Yuuri!” she calls, “You alright?” 

“Yeah!” Yuuri calls back, perhaps a little too loudly. “I’ll meet you in a little bit!”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Minako is looking at him rather skeptically. “You look…kindof crazed.”

“I feel great!”

“Okay, just…stick with Phichit, okay? And come back before the storm really hits!”

“We will!” Yuuri hollers, waving her off.

Minako casts him one more worried glance, and then rolls up the tinted window, and drives away down the beach. 

Yuuri looks down toward the water. The wind is picking up, warm and exciting, and a plastic bag blows wildly over the sand. 

Phichit, still a little winded from his dance and his own alcohol consumption, is standing ankle-deep in the water. He dips his round torches into the sea, and a column of smoke rises around him as they extinguish. 

Yuuri has already made up his mind. And the courage to do it flares inside of him. He makes his way down the beach. 

Phichit looks up, and smiles. He starts to say something, but the words die in his throat when Yuuri’s hand runs through his hair, and Yuuri’s arm wraps around his waist. 

“Yuu-” he gasps, but Yuuri’s thumb brushes over his lips. 

“Don’t think about it, just tell me,” Yuuri murmurs, their faces close, “Can I kiss you?” 

Phichit is stunned dumb for a moment, blinking at him. And then he says, rather weakly, “Yeah.” 

Yuuri moves his hand into the back of Phichit’s hair. He pulls his body closer, and Phichit’s fire props drop to the sand. They stumble backwards as they kiss, into the shallow waves. 

Yuuri breathes in the familiar smell of Phichit’s sweat. His mouth tastes like vanilla rum, and his skin is warm and electric against Yuuri’s. It’s Phichit. He’s _kissing_ Phichit. 

Yuuri traces his fingertips down between Phichit’s shoulder blades, a light touch meant to convey a lot, and Phichit lets out a little moan. He drags Yuuri deeper into the water, until they are standing waist-deep in it, their torsos pressed together and Phichit’s arms around his neck. 

_He’s been wanting this too._ The realization fills Yuuri with euphoria. 

His eyes flutter open long enough to see the neon lights from the carnival flashing faintly over the water, and then close again with pleasure as Phichit runs his tongue over his bottom lip. 

The warm rain is falling thicker now on them, and the hot wind is picking up even more. 

Yuuri has both hands in Phichit’s silky hair. They are starting to grind against each other, and Phichit is moaning softly into his mouth. Yuuri’s brain is exploding. 

_Yes._ God, _yes_.

Yuuri forsakes Phichit’s mouth for a moment to bite him on the sensitive skin just below his ear. And gasping, Phichit runs his fingers down Yuuri’s back. Phichit is still wearing his fingernail claws, and Yuuri lets his forehead fall forward to rest against Phichit’s shoulder as he shudders with the pleasure of the slight pain, the scrape across his skin. 

And then something happens. 

An image flashes across Yuuri’s mind. 

_Viktor_ , shirtless and covered in blood, struggling to keep himself propped-up on his elbow. Georgi Popovich standing over him with his whip, whispering obscenities into his ear as he lost consciousness…the long, criss-crossing scars down Viktor’s back, that Yuuri had seen this very morning when Viktor climbed out of bed. The scars that he sees _every_ morning. 

The ones that Viktor took for _him_ …

Yuuri stumbles back from Phichit and falls backward, up to his shoulder, in the water. He gets up and holds up his hands to Phichit, who is tousled and dazed, his pupils black-blown. 

“Are you okay?” Phichit asks breathily. “Did I--?”

“No, no, it’s not you. I’m sorry.” Yuuri is speaking very quickly. Guilt crashes over him like a tidal wave, turning him cold and frantic. “I’m so sorry, Phichit. I shouldn’t have—I-- _Viktor_ …”

Yuuri dashes out of the water and up the beach, dripping wet in his leather pants. Behind him, the first bolt of lightning strikes the sky, and thunder rolls over the town.


	11. Rain

Rain begins to fall.

Yuuri is running through the carnival, the ink of his fake tattoos smudged across his back and chest, and his mascara streaming down his cheeks.

*

Down the beach, Celestino hastily slings a tarp over the crate of rockets fireworks that had been intended for this Saturday night’s show. There will be no more of the festival outside tonight.

*

At the hotel, a smiling and slightly damp Viktor holds the door and shepherds crowds of tourists in from the rain. He looks gorgeous, in white silk shirt and silver blazer, and no one can escape his charm. “Come in everybody, we have a full bar and restaurant for your enjoyment. We will not let a little storm stop the party! First drink is free. And don’t forget, we start serving Volcanoes at midnight! Also, I was thinking we should have a little pool party. I know most of you don’t have bathing suits, but we’ll make it clothing optional, okay?”

Behind him, Minami swiftly passes out a tray of lemon cello in flute glasses.

*

Yuri makes his way through the carnival, his heart beating very fast. All around him, the crowds are starting to clear, people taking shelter from the rain under tents and ledges. He looks around wildly, but Otabek is nowhere in sight.

He had disappeared in the commotion that followed Yuri’s appearance by the Ferris wheel. _Fuck, they should have picked a place to meet if something like this happened!_

_Seung-Gil and the others could be chasing him down right now, and Yuri has no way of knowing where._

Yuri turns in a circle for a moment, and then rings his hands and lets out a little snarl of frustration and fear.

*

Sara’s cell phone rings.

She stands, stunned and shaking a little from the fall and the fight that had ensued. But after a moment, she answers the phone in a distant, automatic way. 

“Hello?”

“Sara.” It is Yakov. “Where are you?”

“Yakov.” She lets out a rushed, shaky breath. “There was a fight. Mickey is hurt. But they ran off; him, and Georgi, and the others.”

“Sara, listen. There’s no time. There’s a couple things you need to know. First, Otabek is in town.” 

“Yeah.” Sara’s senses are starting to come back to her. “I noticed that.”

“Georgi’s going to be going after him, but listen--”

“He already is, probably. Seung-Gil tried--”

They clamor to talk over each other for a moment, but Sara wins. “They were about to shoot Otabek and then suddenly Yurio was there. Seung-gil got distracted and one of Viktor Nikiforov’s guys attacked him from behind. Otabek and Yuri disappeared, but everyone was fighting. It was those guys Viktor sends to keep us safe with clients. But I think Mickey got hurt, and they all ran off after Otabek.”

“Okay, listen. Don’t go after them. We need Georgi distracted right now, and we need you, Sara.” 

Sara hears Mila begin to speak up in protest behind Yakov. “Yakov, no. Don’t call her over here.” 

“What’s wrong?” Sara’s brow furrows. 

“We found--”

“Yakov, _no_.” Mila’s voice rises. “Just tell her to go somewhere safe.” 

“Where are you?” Sara demands. “Is Mila alright?”

“Yes, she’s fine but—Mila, _stop_ —We’re at Georgi’s cave.” 

The phone clicks off and Sara stands still for another beat, deciding what to do. There are suddenly three places that she urgently needs to be. 

_She needs to chase down Mickey and see how badly he is hurt._

_She needs to go after Otabek and get him somewhere safe._

_And she needs to go to Mila and help with…whatever danger there is where she is._

Sara takes a breath, and makes her choice. 

She kicks off her stiletto heels, runs for the motorcycles parked by the Ferris wheel, and swings herself onto Georgi’s. _Best to slow Georgi down as much as possible, by the sound of things._ She revs it to life, and speeds off through the heavy rain and the clearing crowds. 

She drives in the direction of the cave.


End file.
